XV

CAVE OF THE GOLDEN DRAGON

When the car stopped at the end of a short drive,
Soames had not the slightest idea of his whereabouts.
The blinds at the window of the limousine had been
lowered during the whole journey, and now he descended
from the step of the car on to the step of a doorway.
He was in some kind of roofed-in courtyard, only illuminated
by the headlamps of the car. Mr. Gianapolis pushed
him forward, and, as the door was closed, he heard
the gear of the car reversed; then—­silence
fell.

“My grip!” he began, nervously.

“It will be placed in your room, Soames.”

The voice of the Greek answered him from the darkness.

Guided by the hand of Gianapolis, he passed on and
descended a flight of stone steps. Ahead of him
a light shone out beneath a door, and, as he stumbled
on the steps, the door was thrown suddenly open.

He found himself looking into a long, narrow apartment....
He pulled up short with a smothered, gasping cry.

It was a cavern!—­but a cavern the like
of which he had never seen, never imagined. The
walls had the appearance of being rough-hewn from
virgin rock—­from black rock—­from
rock black as the rocks of Shellal—­black
as the gates of Erebus.

Placed at regular intervals along the frowning walls,
to right and left, were spiral, slender pillars, gilded
and gleaming. They supported an archwork of fancifully
carven wood, which curved gently outward to the center
of the ceiling, forming, by conjunction with a similar,
opposite curve, a pointed arch.

In niches of the wall were a number of grotesque Chinese
idols. The floor was jet black and polished like
ebony. Several tiger-skin rugs were strewn about
it. But, dominating the strange place, in the
center of the floor stood an ivory pedestal, supporting
a golden dragon of exquisite workmanship; and before
it, as before a shrine, an enormous Chinese vase was
placed, of the hue, at its base, of deepest violet,
fading, upward, through all the shades of rose pink
seen in an Egyptian sunset, to a tint more elusive
than a maiden’s blush. It contained a mass
of exotic poppies of every shade conceivable, from
purple so dark as to seem black, to poppies of the
whiteness of snow.

Just within the door, and immediately in front of
Soames, stood a slim man of about his own height,
dressed with great nicety in a perfectly fitting morning-coat,
his well-cut cashmere trousers falling accurately
over glossy boots having gray suede uppers. His
linen was immaculate, and he wore a fine pearl in
his black poplin cravat. Between two yellow fingers
smoldered a cigarette.